The Place Where Dreams Hide
by crying seas
Summary: AU where Echizen Ryoma is a troubled, broken kid that has no idea what happy feels like. Then he gets sent to live in a special home with four other boys who are just like him - and realizes, grudgingly, that he may not be alone after all.
1. Chapter 1

Apparently they were going to give him a home.

Ryoma snorted to himself, shifting in front of the door. He had a bag slung over his shoulder, containing a rare few items: bathroom utilities, a couple of clothes, his favorite book, and a can of Ponta that he'd bought on the way here. He had _some _money. Probably fifty dollars all together. Nothing he could live off of.

If he had more, he would have run away ages ago.

The house in front of him was large. It lay off on to the side of a country road. It looked like one of those nice, big homes where the kids followed the footsteps of their parents of being a farmer and nothing ever went wrong. Ryoma knew that wouldn't be the case here. Things _always _went wrong. It was like he was a magnet for trouble.

His father was a child abuser. The scars that stained Ryoma's body and face were all too fresh for him to forget. His mother was an alcoholic. She accidentally killed his precious cat Karupin on one of her drunken adventures. The school he went to was dingy and hopeless. People beat people up for losing the pencil they borrowed.

He stared back up at the home, and bit the inside of his cheek. This house wouldn't end the pain. Nothing _ever _did.

He knocked anyway.

"Get the door, Momo!"

"Can't you get it?"

He could hear loud voices inside. It made his gut coil sharply. He hated loud voices. His father had _always _been obnoxiously loud. The harder he yelled, the harder Ryoma knew he would be punished. Shaking his head, Ryoma pushed the trembling thoughts away.

A moment later, there was a click. Then the door opened.

It was a boy. He looked older than Ryoma, but still young enough to have a childish face. Long hair framed his pale face. His eyes were closed in a sunny smile, the lips curving up with warmth. He looked fragile; delicate. Almost like a girl. But there were things about him that were boyish too – broad shoulders, a sharp jaw.

Ryoma surveyed him in less than a second.

"Hello." His voice was silky, like honey. "Are you Echizen?"

Ryoma blinked up at him. He suddenly felt self-conscious from the bruise on his cheek. At least this person didn't look too strong. He couldn't hurt him.

"Yes." He cleared his throat. "Echizen Ryoma."

"Ryoma." He opened the door. "I'm Fuji. You can come in, if you'd like it."

Ryoma watched as Fuji disappeared into the house, with one last beckoning wave of the hand. Fuji was very much like an angel. His movements were graceful, his voice soft. He seemed very _gentle. Good, _Ryoma thought, exhaling with nerves. _I ought to have some gentle now and then. I don't get it nearly enough._

Ryoma followed him inside. He knew this house held troubled kids. Only four, so far, not including him - but troubled nonetheless.

He wondered what Fuji had went through before he'd come here.

Fuji looked pleased to see him following. "We're all eating in the kitchen right now." His tone was still soft, and Ryoma's tense shoulders relaxed. "You can go to your room first, if you'd like, or introduce yourself to everyone."

"My room," Ryoma said hastily.

Fuji smiled at him, like he'd known Ryoma would choose that. "It's upstairs. Go straight down the hallway, and turn left. It's the one with no sign on the door."

Ryoma nodded, but couldn't find his voice to say thanks. Instead, he trudged up the long stairs, his legs aching from the brutal beating he'd got before everything had spun out of control. His father's face flickered in his mind – tanned skin, the curl of a wicked smirk – but he willed to make the image go away. He was _here _now.

Safe-ish. For the moment, anyway.

His room was ordinary. He supposed that was a good thing. A single bed lay in the middle, with a pair of windows above it. There was an empty bookshelf, and a tiny closet at the side. The carpet was frayed, and the walls were white. It was…very medicore. On the bright side, unlike his old home, there was no blood stains on the walls, belts and knives lying on the dressing table, and hardwood floors to sleep on.

This was definitely an improvement.

After attempting to comb his unruly hair, failing to wash the bright scars off his face, and changing into a pair of pajamas, Ryoma tentatively headed downstairs. He didn't know what to do. Downstairs, there would be four strangers he didn't know. Sure, Fuji _seemed _nice, but everyone _seemed _nice when you first met them.

His mom seemed nice for six years. Then she lost her mind.

Ryoma crept down the stairwell. Voices filtered in through the kitchen.

"Momo, slow down! You'll choke!"

"It's so – mmff – good though!"

"Thank you." He recognized that as Fuji's voice. So Fuji cooked good food. Ryoma couldn't help but think the boy was on the feminine side. Taking a deep breath, Ryoma tried to steady his nerves. He was _Echizen Ryoma. _He played good tennis. He didn't take crap from anyone (except his violent father and drunk mother and stupid classmates, but that was besides the point). He was naturally _gifted _in academics.

He could do this.

With quavering confidence on his shoulders, Ryoma stepped into the kitchen. The room instantly fell silent.

Four pairs of eyes stared at him. Ryoma swallowed, and stared back.

There was Fuji, wearing an apron (he would laugh about it later, when he wasn't feeling so terrified), but the rest were foreign creatures.

The first guy had been in the middle of shoving food up his throat. He had spiky black hair, and the most interesting shade of eyes. They were violet. Ryoma had never seen that colour before. Even with his loose shirt, Ryoma could see he was muscular and definitely worked out. He was big, and rugged, and somewhat manly.

He wondered how anyone could ever have hurt him.

The next boy had his chin resting on his hands, elbows propped up on the table. He had dark, cat blue eyes. One of the eyes had the shadow of a bruise. Magenta hair flopped over his forehead. He was lean, and angular. For some odd reason, Ryoma felt comforted by this person. His aura radiated only one word: cheerful. He even worked up a smile for Ryoma.

The last guy was dark and handsome. Ryoma wiped his hands on his shorts. The boy's eyes were narrow and brown, his skin smooth and pale. Ryoma didn't know what to think about him, except that he looked invincible.

How were these guys like him? Had they been hurt the way he had?

"Hi, there." The food-shove guy swallowed, and grinned. "You're Echizen?"

Ryoma felt his throat tight up. "Yeah."

"I'm Momo," the guy introduced himself.

"He eats too much," the cheerful guy said. "And I'm Eiji Kikumaru. But you can call me Kikumaru-senpai. Since I'm your senpai."

Ryoma nodded numbly. He peered at the last guy, but wasn't really surprised when he didn't do anything but nod curtly. He didn't seem like the type to talk.

Fuji adjusted his apron. "If you're hungry, you can eat. There's still some stew left."

He just nodded again. He didn't think his mouth would work.

"Sit down." Momo slapped the empty seat next to him. Ryoma felt nerves shoot up his body, all the way to his knees and ankles. He hated being close to people – emotionally or physically. It made him feel so uneasy. But it would be rude not to. Taking another deep breath, he slipped into the seat between Momo and the hasn't-talked-yet guy.

Ryoma's muscles were rigid as stone. He felt anxiety pulse through him. He just wanted to be home.

If only he knew where home _was._

"You're so small," Momo said through a mouthful. "How old are you, anyway?"

Ryoma's voice shook as he spoke: "Twelve."

Kikumaru kicked his legs back and forth. Ryoma saw the bruise under his eye more clearly now. He didn't comment.

"We should give you a nickname," Kikumaru said.

Ryoma didn't say anything.

"You look like someone who should have a nickname," Kikumaru said.

He did? Ryoma still didn't say anything. He wanted to curl up and cry and then maybe die.

"Maybe we should call him 'golden boy'," Momo said.

Kikumaru arched his brow. "That's so _lame, _Momo."

"What? Don't you get it? He has _gold _eyes, and he's probably brilliant, so he can be golden boy."

"Nope," Kikumaru said. "I refuse to call him golden boy."

Thank _god. _Ryoma shivered at the thought of being nicknamed that. He'd prefer just his normal name: Echizen Ryoma, but he really didn't want to say anything. He needed to observe, to make sure these people were safe. To make sure they weren't going to hurt him. He liked Kikumaru, and Fuji seemed okay.

He wasn't sure about Momo, and he _definitely _wasn't sure about the guy-who-hadn't-talked-yet.

"Hm." Kikumaru tapped his fingers on his chin. "How about Baby Boy? Since he's like the baby of the group."

Momo snickered.

Ryoma frowned, staring at his lap. He wanted to protest, but words wouldn't come out.

Fuji laughed from where he stood, leaning on the fridge. "I don't think he likes being called Baby Boy. Maybe we should just call him Echizen."

He was _really _starting to like this Fuji guy.

"No, that's _boring, _nya." Kikumaru bobbed his head up and down. "_Maybe _we should call him kitten. Since he kind of looks like one."

"Kitten. I _like _it." Fuji practically purred.

And now he didn't so much like this Fuji guy. But Ryoma really didn't care about his nickname. Just the word kitten send waves of pain rolling through him. All he could think about was Karupin – his only companion, his only friend and family in life being run over by his mother's car. Because she'd been _drunk._

His eyes stung, and he could feel his lower lip quivering. _Don't cry, _he told himself. _If you cry, you'll look weak. You have to look strong in front of them._

They somehow sensed his unease.

"Oi, you okay?" Momo asked.

He choked on the tears that wanted to come. "I'm okay."

"You sure?" Momo's thick brow furrowed.

"…Yeah."

He could feel them all staring at him. Fuji's smile was thin, and the dark-and-handsome boy was looking at him from the corner of a slanted eye. He shrunk into the chair. Suddenly, all he wanted was to be locked up in that medicore room, crying and soaking his pillow with sobs. All he wanted was to disappear. Maybe jump off a cliff.

"You look like you're going to cry, nya," Kikumaru said.

Maybe he could drown in the bathtub. Or cut his wrists.

Great, he was thinking suicidal thoughts now. But what _was _the point of this? What _was _the point in living when he had no idea what to do anymore?

"I think he doesn't like the name kitten," Fuji said slickly. "Although I wouldn't go as far as crying."

The others half-chuckled at his attempt to ease the tension. Ryoma only wondered if Fuji was supporting him or making fun of him.

"I just…" Ryoma wiped his eyes furiously. "Can I be excused?"

"Aww," Kikumaru said.

Momo scratched his head. "You okay?" he asked for the third time.

Fuji smiled warmly. "Go ahead. If you get hungry, just tell me."

That was the only cue he needed. Ryoma stumbled out of the kitchen, nearly tripping over himself to get up the stairs. When he reached his room, he locked the door behind him, and threw himself onto the bed. He could feel his body shaking underneath him. His muscles ached with bruises and cuts. Their friendly faces swarmed in his mind.

They were all so happy (save the guy-who-hadn't talked-yet).

They obviously weren't like him.

Ryoma shoulders shook as a faint sob escaped his throat. A second later, another came, before he was crying into the bed. He sobbed almost as hard as he had when Karupin died. He just wanted to _die,_or something like that. He just wanted to be _done. _It was all too much to take anymore. As he cried, loud and noisy into his pillow, he heard the door creak open.

He saw Fuji's eye at the doorway. His smile was soft, and sad, but encouraging all the same.

Ryoma ignored it, and only cried harder.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you so much for all the reviews so far! I really appreciate it. Anyway, this chapter is by far not the best in quality or content...but...well, here you go.**

Ryoma stayed in his mediocre little bedroom for the rest of the day.

Several times, Fuji came in to check on him, asking him if he wanted to come down for dinner. Once, he even at the audacity to say, "Ryoma – I know it's hard for you to open up right now, but if you want to feel any better, you're going to have to talk."

As _if _Ryoma was going to spew out his feelings to Fuji Syusuke, a complete cooking-feminine-smiling freak of a stranger. Pulling his knees to his chest, Ryoma stared at his frayed socks. The worst part was the isolation he already felt. At school, he'd suffered with not feeling like he belonged – after all, everyone else had half-decent parents to go home to.

Here, he supposed, he'd held some fickle hope that he'd be able to relate to someone. _Connect _with another human being. Clearly not. They were all so much older than him, and so much more…_free_? He wasn't sure what the word was. All he knew was that they weren't anything like him.

Kikumaru was bouncy and cheerful. Momo was loud and fun. Fuji was…well, Fuji _smiled._They all seemed relatively happy compared to him.

Except that dude who didn't talk. But Ryoma had already decided he was going to avoid him like the plague.

His bedroom door snuck open again.

"Hey," Momo said, in the process of shoving a piece of chocolate down his mouth. He had a football tucked under his arm. "It's kinda late, but we were thinking of playing a football game outside. Wanna come?"

Football. Ryoma bit his lip hard. Of course he didn't want to play American football. It was the one game that not only allowed tackling and hurting other people, but encouraged it. Ryoma would get utterly _crushed_ under the weight of Momo if he actually volunteered to play.

Nope. He'd rather sit and cry.

"No," Ryoma said.

When Momo gave him a look, he offered the excuse, "I'm tired."

"You know," Momo shifted the football, and Ryoma avoided looking at Momo's chocolate-smeared mouth. Gross. "I know it's hard and stuff. To adjust. I mean, we've all been through it…and it's not easy…" he looked anxious. "But you can't give up like this. You simply _can't._"

_You've been through it? You've been through your father using a knife to draw blood from your back? Che. Liar._

Ryoma glared at him, eyes hot. "I'm _tired._"

"Believe it or not," Apparently Momo didn't get the message. "There's actually this saying that half the time, being tired is all psychological. If you get up and start playing, I'm sure your energy will bounce back up." Momo's violet eyes lit, then. "C'mon! You can even be on _my _team."

_I don't want to be on your team. I don't want to play stupid football. I don't want…_

God, he hated his life.

Ryoma's hands balled around his blankets. "Fuck off."

Momo blinked, taken aback. "But-"

"I said _fuck off._"

The harsh words paired with a deafening scowl got the message across. Momo stumbled a little – perhaps surprised that a twelve-year was capable of swearing – and clambered backwards. He mumbled out a, "You can always play if you want to," before rushing out of the bedroom.

Silence painted his little room. Ryoma curled up, exhausted, his eyes fluttering open and close. He hadn't meant to say that to Momo. But tiredness, fueled by the frustration of his entire life, had taken over.

_It doesn't matter. It's not like they would have been your friends either way._

And that was the funny thing. The whole point of coming to this "special house" was so that he would be able to heal with other people who were just like him. But so far, none of the other boys looked troubled. None of the other boys looked on the verge of suicide, or badly abused, or even plain _sad._

_Nobody _in the entire freaking world was like him.

Ryoma could feel old tears clinging to his lashes, and fresh ones flooding the gold of his eyes. He hated this. He hated being so weak, and he hated crumbling under the pressure of his horrible life. He wasn't sure if he was just naturally depressed, or if the circumstances had made him this way. It didn't really matter either way. This was who he was now.

Weak. Unworthy. Broken.

Even through the closed window, Ryoma could hear the faint shouting of the other boys playing outside, their cries echoing through the home.

They were alive, and spirited, and free.

Ryoma was dead, dead, dead.

**.**

He woke up at around 3 AM, his stomach clawing painfully at his sides. He hadn't had a bite to eat since he'd come here, and his tummy was paying for the consequences. Bringing himself to his feet, Ryoma padded across the hardwood floor. The house was silent aside from the faint humming of electricity lines.

He wondered if he should go steal something from the fridge. And maybe he could sneak out and play tennis too.

He wasn't sure if there were any tennis courts near the house. When he'd come – barely paying any attention – all he'd seen were a blur of trees and acres of land. If there were any tennis courts, they were probably miles away. _Great, _Ryoma winced as the floorboard creaked, hurrying down the stairs and to the fridge. _Not only does my life suck, but the only thing that matters will be snatched away too._

Ryoma _needed _tennis. He didn't think he could make it through if he couldn't play.

The fridge was unsurprisingly heavenly. It seemed like the Fuji guy really liked cooking. It was stocked with leftovers and intricate ingredients that Ryoma had never seen in his life. On his left, there were a couple of unopened cans of Ponta. They weren't the flavour he liked but he took one and opened it anyway.

Was this thievery? He wasn't sure, and was honestly too tired to care.

Ryoma's eyes fell on his bare feet, and he wiggled his toes. There was a huge cut on the skin of his left foot. It was from when his father had decided to aim a knife at him. It had missed sorely (maybe his father hadn't been really trying to kill him), instead only scraping his foot.

He stared at the bright red cut. He hated his body. It was a constant, painful reminder of how permanent everything in his life was.

"Echizen?"

Ryoma flinched – instinctively – and a little bit of Ponta overflowed from his drink and dripped to the floor.

A tall shadow painted the walls, illuminated by the reflecting fridge light. Ryoma's immediate instinct was to run – this guy was probably going to try to hurt him. Who else crept up on an innocent person in the dark? Ryoma was already stepping back, his fingers curling tighter around his Ponta can.

"Echizen." The voice was deep, low, and steady.

He hadn't heard it before. Kikumaru's was high-pitched. Momo's was uber-friendly. Fuji's was soft.

Was it…

_The other guy._

Ryoma swallowed thickly. "What do you want?" He reached out for the chair near the fridge. He would throw it if he had to.

The guy didn't say anything, but he moved out from the darkness and flicked on the lights. Ryoma's heart squeezed in his chest, expanding and contracting, fear building in his eyes. This was why he hated people. People could hurt him. People were capable of making him feel the way he always felt.

"Echizen?" The guy sounded notably worried now, probably wondering if Ryoma was having a panic attack.

Ryoma just stared at him, his fingers quivering around his Ponta. The man was – like he'd been when he'd first seen him – tall and handsome and undeniably dark. He had dark hair and dark eyes and pale skin. He was wearing lavender pajamas, draped across his lean body.

"I'm just…I…uh…" Ryoma's mouth was dry. He decided to scowl. "What are you doing?"

The guy didn't move. Ryoma relaxed a little. He wasn't lunging at him – that was a good thing.

"It's 3 AM. How come you're awake?" The guy asked.

Ryoma felt a little nudge of fear once more. Was he going to get punished? Brutally beaten? _No, because you're safe here, remember? They brought you here so you'd be safe._"I just wanted to drink something," he said as irritably as he could. "_Problem_?"

The guy shook his head tiredly. "No. Be careful walking in the dark. Remember to close the fridge."

Ryoma shivered. He felt like a little kid. "What are _you _doing awake?" he blurted.

The guy stopped in his tracks, already halfway up the stairs. He looked over his shoulder, and for a moment, Ryoma froze cold, scared and terrified and sweaty with fear. He was seriously going to get throttled.

But then the guy offered a dim smile. (It wasn't really a smile – it was more of the softening of his face muscles, but it was sort of like a smile to Ryoma). "I'm a light sleeper," he explained. "I heard you wake up. I just wanted to make sure you weren't running away."

A flare of heat simmered in Ryoma's gut. "I wasn't going to run away," he scoffed.

"I know," the guy said. "I was just keeping my guard up."

Ryoma heightened his glare. "I don't care."

"Very well." The guy straightened up. He continued up the stairs, oblivious – or simply ignoring – Ryoma's obvious seething. As he reached the top, he paused for a moment, and looked back down. "You can call me Tezuka."

Then he was gone, – disappearing into the darkness – leaving Ryoma to stand alone in the kitchen with the light of the fridge casting an angry glow on the scar of his foot.

"Running away," Ryoma grumbled, slamming the door shut. "As if I would do something as stupid as that."

**.**

His dreams were twisted memories, roaring back at him like the growl of a lion. Even in the comfort of his bed, Ryoma shivered, and turned, and writhed. He could feel the knife tracing his back, the cold metal tip running slowly and ticklishly down his skin. He could feel the point press deeper. Could feel the blood spewing out, painting a nasty picture on his body.

_Please, please, make it stop. _Ryoma squeezed his eyes shut. Sweat coated his body, and he squirmed away from empty air.

Sometimes there were cuffs. Or belts, slapping roughly across the delicate skin of his thighs and stomach. Sometimes there were just empty threats, and loud voices, pushing him under with words of how bad he was and how much he did wrong. And sometimes there were just eyes.

Watching him. Tearing him apart with a single look.

_Never again._

Ryoma squeezed his blankets tight around himself, cocooning himself for safety.

It was a funny thing, how much dreams had in common with reality.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Wow, I think this chapter is even worse than the last. Oh well! At least I'm updating regularly, right? I hope you enjoy it at least a little bit! **

* * *

><p>"Morning, kitten!"<p>

That was what Echizen Ryoma was welcomed to the following morning. He wanted to glare at Kikumaru for still having the audacity to call him kitten, but exhaustion wore him down too deeply. He hadn't had a good night's sleep in forever.

_Stupid dreams._

The breakfast table was filled with noise. Momo was yawning loudly and exaggeratedly. Fuji was humming to himself as he made a plate of eggs. Kikumaru was bouncing all around the place, crying "Hoi hoi!" and Tezuka was...Tezuka was sitting quietly, staring straight ahead. Ryoma almost _liked _him for a moment.

"Hey, Ryoma," Fuji turned, and smiled softly. "Sleep well?"

"Sure," Ryoma grumbled. _As if. _Suppressing a yawn, he slid into the seat beside Tezuka. The guy was still pretty intimidating, but Ryoma was quickly beginning to realize he was the only one who had the ability to keep quiet for a long period of time. Sure, Fuji wasn't that talkative, but he still _questioned _Ryoma.

Ryoma hated questions.

"So, did you like your new bed?" Kikumaru hopped around Ryoma's chair like a bunny. "I know it's pretty plain, but tomorrow we can all go shopping and buy you a colourful one! What kind of bedspread do you want?" He bounced exaggeratedly some more. "Animals? Planets? Oooh, how about cacti?"

Fuji grinned. "I would go for the cacti."

Kikumaru giggled a little, and they exchanged smiles.

Ryoma felt horribly out of place. After managing to dislodge the lump in his throat, he croaked out, "The one I have is fine."

"Ryoma, we can't have that," Momo jumped in. "It's just not allowed. Be creative. Think outside of the box. What kind of bedspread have you _always _wanted?"

Ryoma swallowed uncomfortably. Who the hell cared about the colour of his bedspread? He was just glad he had a bed to sleep on. He shifted in his seat, aware of the prominent gazes from all around the table. He _hated _this. He hated all of them. "Um," he felt his lip quiver. "I don't know..."

"Just pick one!" Kikumaru urged. "What do you really love?"

_Tennis._

_Karupin._

_Definitely not myself._

_Definitely not any of you._

"Uhhh..." Ryoma really didn't have an answer to this beyond stupid question.

Fuji must have sensed his unease, because he mouthed, "Cacti."

_I don't want stupid cacti on my bed._

"Cacti," Ryoma found himself saying.

Immediately, Kikumaru cheered at the decision, Momo groaned loudly, and Fuji smiled warmly from the kitchen sink. They all began to converse about cacti and bedspreads and Fuji's wonderful eggs and Ryoma felt like _curling up and dying. _What the fuck was this? Was this some stupid trick? They were _all _the happiest people he had ever seen.

They were _not _like him. This whole "healing" thing was probably a stupid lie.

Tezuka gently picked up his mug, and took a sip. Save for the Tezuka guy. Ryoma didn't even know what to think about him. He was pretty scary with his stony silence and expressionless face, but Ryoma was slowly liking it. At least he didn't act super happy like the other three. At least he might, _might _have been through something in his life before he came here.

Fuji laid a plate of eggs in front of Ryoma. His eyes were the bluest blue Ryoma had ever seen.

"Don't worry too much," Fuji said. "It gets better. It always does."

Ryoma smiled half-heartedly, and started on his eggs.

_Good joke, Fuji._

**.**

After breakfast, Ryoma spent most of his time up in his room again.

He didn't really do much. He cried a little, but that wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Then he stared at himself in the mirror, and ran his fingers over all the cuts and bruises that scattered his body. When he was younger, around six – probably around the time his father started hitting him – he'd hated the scars. He'd hated them so much he would try to scrub them off with soap and water, crying when he realized it wasn't going away.

He _still _hated all of the marks, but he knew soap and water wouldn't do the trick. Nothing did the trick.

After looking in the mirror for several long minutes, he slept for a good portion of the afternoon. The dreams were usually less vicious during daytime, but they still crept in. Ryoma woke up sweating and breathing heavily three times before he gave up on sleep and debated between going downstairs or staying his room.

Staying in his room meant more loneliness. More time and space to hate himself, and think about all of the memories he wished he didn't have.

But going downstairs meant...

"Them," Ryoma whispered, the word tasting bitter in his mouth.

It wasn't that they were bad people. They were much nicer than the kids at his school. But it didn't really matter _who _it was. Ryoma just hated conversations. They left him uncomfortable and awkward and hot with embarrassment. Maybe it was because he didn't know how to properly talk to someone. Or maybe he just couldn't _bother _to try to get to know them.

But there was always something that stopped him from laughing and smiling and cracking jokes like everyone else.

Ignoring his churning stomach, Ryoma opened his bedroom door a crack. The house was serenely quiet. Taking this as a good sign, he crept as quietly as he could downstairs. From the window, he noted that Fuji and Momo were gardening outside (except Momo wasn't really gardening – instead he was inspecting the dirt like it was some foreign substance) while Tezuka was sitting on the porch reading a book.

_Thank god for silence._

Ryoma went over to the fridge, and poured himself a glass of orange juice. It took him a moment to realize Kikumaru was in the kitchen, staring at him, extremely quiet and solemn.

Ryoma paused mid-pouring, his mouth dry. "...um..." He licked his lips. "Do you want something?"

Kikumaru shook his head. "Nah...not really..." he lifted his face, and for the first time, Ryoma saw his bright blue eyes grow tired, and a little exhausted. His face still glowed with perpetual energy, but Ryoma could suddenly see the faded fatigue worn on his face.

Ryoma wanted to say something, but he knew that would be a bad idea. So instead he continued pouring, letting the rush of the orange juice fill the silence in the room. After he filled the glass, he sat on the opposite side of Kikumaru, drinking quietly.

For about ten minutes, that was all they did. Ryoma drank, and Kikumaru stared at the tiles on the floor with unnerving concentration.

Then:

"Why do we do it?"

Ryoma looked up from his juice. Kikumaru was staring right at him, eyes bright and watery. The scar underneath his eye looked clearer in the light of the sun.

Tentatively, Ryoma braced himself. "Do what?"

"Stay with people that hurt us."

The words struck like a dagger. Ryoma felt his heart clench painfully.

"It's not like we deserve it," Kikumaru said, and his voice trembled and cracked on the hinges. His eyes were moist, and his mouth quivered with the lost facade of a smile. "We know...we're not _supposed _to. I could've..." he dug his fingers into the palm of his left hand, nails digging into the soft flesh. "I could've been _okay _if I hadn't stayed."

He didn't know what Kikumaru was talking about. It was just weird, seeing him not smiling and bubbly. And that last part? Wasn't Kikumaru _already _okay?

"You are okay," Ryoma finally said, trying to respond in a way that didn't make him want to stuff his words back.

Kikumaru laughed, but it wasn't a real laugh. It was fake and bitter and filled with malice. "Yeah, right," he said. "I'm okay. I'm _totally _okay, aren't I?" He was still laughing to himself, and it scared Ryoma. He started to feel sweat build on his palms, and the familiar feeling of cold fear came back.

"I fucking hate him," Kikumaru said. "I hate him _so _much."

_I don't know who you're talking about._

Ryoma just stayed as still as he could. He didn't want to make Kikumaru snap.

"I wish I could-" Kikumaru took Ryoma's empty glass of orange juice, and threw it on the ground. It smashed into little pieces, scattering over the floor. Ryoma flinched at the loud sound, and his eyes widened in a mix of terror and shock.

"I wish I could do _that _to him," Kikumaru was shaking now, his skinny body vibrating violently. Tears filled his eyes, and he hugged himself, looking vulnerable and awfully out of place. "I'm sorry," he said, not really looking at Ryoma, and probably not really talking to him either. "I'm really _sorry._"

_What the hell is going on? _Ryoma didn't know, and he wasn't going to stick around to find out. He got up from his seat, leaving Kikumaru in a huddled mess, and ran to the front porch.

All three of the other boys looked up at his sudden arrival.

"Everything okay?" Fuji asked.

Ryoma shook his head rapidly.

"What's wrong?" Tezuka asked, also sensing the urgency.

It was so hard to say what was wrong, because Ryoma was still shaking from the glass shattering on the ground. He hated loud noises. He hated seeing Kikumaru's eyes lose all of their joy. He hated the way the orange juice swirled in his stomach, making him want to throw up everything he'd ate for breakfast.

"Ryoma," Fuji put a hand on his shoulder.

Ryoma jerked, and stumbled back. "Don't touch me," he snapped.

"Sorry," Fuji said apologetically. "Sorry. What's wrong, Ryoma?"

He exhaled. Inhaled. He couldn't have a panic attack right now.

"Kikumaru-senpai," Ryoma's voice wavered. What was he supposed to say? That Kikumaru had lost his mind? Had thrown a glass? Began talking about random shit that Ryoma had no idea about?

"Ryoma," Fuji said again. "What about him?"

"Um," Ryoma managed. "He's...sad?"

Fuji and Tezuka exchanged looks. Momo was already running inside as if he was worried the house was on fire.

"Wait here, okay?" Fuji said. He didn't wait for a reply, and both him and Tezuka followed Momo into the house. Ryoma was still shaking as the door closed behind him. His eyes were rapidly filling with tears, but he blinked them back. He didn't even understand what had just happened.

_How..._

He lowered himself onto the first porch step, pulling his knees to his chest.

He hated Kikumaru for scaring him.

But he hated himself even more for thinking Kikumaru hadn't really needed healing.

_You're so judgemental. You're exactly what oyaji said you are. Stupid. Rude. Ungrateful. _

His head pounded, his mouth was raw, and all of these awful voices swirled in his head, echoing and vibrating against each other.

Sometimes, he just wished he could make it all stop.

Make all of the thoughts in his head disappear.

But sometimes he just wished he could have _new _thoughts.

Thoughts that were positive and kind and didn't include suicide.


End file.
